


Exceeding Expectations

by half_sleeping



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Family Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-18 00:16:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/half_sleeping/pseuds/half_sleeping
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Akashi already knows that he is going to become his father. He sees no point, short of an unforeseen and tragic accident, in hastening that day. </p><p>OR: </p><p>Midorima is Akashi's father's perfect human being. Akashi... is not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exceeding Expectations

**Title:** Exceeding Expectations

 **Pairing:**  Akashi/Midorima

 **Challenge:** 26 (families)

 **Characters** : Akashi's father, still unnamed and yet omnipresent. 

Once the entrees have come and Akashi has made significant inroads into his pasta, Akashi’s father leans across the table, produces a magazine, and says, “I take it you’re aware of this,” throwing it across the too-long table in their private room, so that it lands awkwardly between the wine glasses and the array of flavoured salts. 

Akashi looks at the page his father has opened it to. It’s this month’s issue of _Basketball Monthly_ , and Shuutoku is featured, a five-part special on how star players can affect the composition of a team.

Akashi has, in his time as Teikou’s captain, given some twenty-five published interviews, three televised ones for every tournament they won with him as captain, and been mentioned in print about junior high and high school basketball approximately as many times as the actual word ‘basketball’. The second-last issue before this profiled Rakuzan, and Shirogane-sensei presented his brother’s congratulations to Akashi and the expression of his continued confidence that Akashi will perform as he always has, excellently. 

His father has not, as far Akashi knows, read any of them except the first five-line article, cut out and proudly placed on the master’s desk by his father’s secretary, to which he responded- quite loudly, at that day’s dinner table- that he did not consider that being a statistical anomaly was anything worthy of note for a member of their family.

The staff, still fiercely proud, keep track of the young master’s progress. They are cut out and laminated and collected. Akashi reads them once, to ensure there have been no mistakes made in the reporting, and never again.

“Midorima-kun was featured in this issue,” says his father, still for some reason glaring down the table at Akashi. “It says that with his increasing rapport with this young man- here, the one mauling him in the team photo- they have great hopes for their school’s future prospects.”

“The article identifies him as Takao Kazunari,” says Akashi. It is the very latest issue, and when Akashi walks into practice tomorrow, his teammates will likely be discussing it fervently. It does rather look as though Shintarou is getting mauled in the small black-and-white inset- when the photographer said, roughhouse!, the other boy must have jumped straight for Shintarou’s neck and trusted in her shutter speed. In the more formal regulars photo, the other boy is dressed in the same eye-popping shade of orange as everyone else, but is still standing next to Shintarou, smiling widely. Akashi’s breath is caught, for a moment, by the still shot of Shintarou mid-launch, all his focus and his perfect form, elegantly and unreservedly beautiful, and for that same moment he misses Shintarou fiercely.

“Who is he?” demands his father.

Akashi controls his desire to reach over, pick up a fork, and stab himself to escape this conversation. He should have gone overseas for school, since Kyoto was obviously not nearly far enough. Even his father cannot charter a cross-continental flight on a moment’s whim. There’s the travel time to consider. “I assume one of Shintarou’s new teammates,” he replies. “He plays the same position that I do.”

“Is he good?” says his father.

Akashi eyes the article. Between the usual hyperbole and the waffling about the joys of youth and tradition, the conclusion is favourable. _This stunning combination is likely to make this one of the strongest teams Shuutoku High has ever fielded,_ Inoue-san writes _. Their connection and camaraderie extends to both on and off the court, as Takao-kun and Midorima-kun are rarely seen apart and often travel to and from school together._

“I don’t know,” responds Akashi. “I cannot draw a conclusion until I have seen him in action.” He knows it’s futile, but adds, “at the upcoming Interhigh, the summer basketball tournament.”

His father _hurmphs_. “So this young man is your replacement with Midorima-kun,” he says.

“My what?” says Akashi.

“Your replacement,” says his father.

Akashi takes a calming sip of tea. It’s cold, which is only to be expected. “I would hardly categorize it as such,” he says. “One might as well say that Reo is my replacement for Shintarou, since he is also playing a similar position. Our high school experiences do not ‘replace’ our years in Teikou.”

This time his father grunts. “Have you grown?” he asks.

“I am a hundred and seventy-three centimetres tall,” says Akashi, who has not. His father is a hundred and seventy-two.

“This boy’s profile puts him at a hundred and seventy-six,” replies his father.

“May I be excused,” says Akashi with dignity. He stands, and smooths down his suit. He’s lost his appetite. “I do not want any dessert, you may settle the bill while I am in the restroom.”

His father drums his fingertips on the table. “I have another appointment,” he says. “The car will be waiting to take you back to school.”

.0.

Akashi is never quite certain what it is, tangibly, that his father sees in Shintarou to have designated him a specimen of perfect young manhood. While Akashi appreciates Shintarou’s many sterling qualities, Akashi’s father adores them: there’s a note in his voice, warm and nearly effusive, when speaking to or of Shintarou.

Akashi has also heard that tone, but more rarely. When Father spoke to, and now of, Mother. When Father first put Akashi onto a horse, _his_ horse, and handed him the reins. When Father had said _of course, he’s my son_ , in response to _you must be very proud of him_ , and once that had been enough, because Father was never wrong.

Akashi’s father has never seen fit to communicate them to Akashi, relying instead, and as Akashi grew older, on meaningful looks and forbidding facial expressions to make his point. Akashi too dislikes having to repeat himself. 

This is what Akashi can deduce his father admires about Shintarou: his height, his persistence, his poise, his intelligence, his athleticism, his manners, his ambition (Shintarou has a sixty-point plan to be the top anaesthetist in the country by the age of thirty-three), his whimsy, his accomplishments, the modulation of his voice, the fact that Shintarou has an adorable little sister whom he is insufferably devoted to and proud of.

This is what his father cannot deduce about his son, repeated once, and only once, at least verbally: why, with such a sterling example next to him, his son can’t exhibit some of that _drive_. That _ambition_. _That boy_ knows where he wants to go in life and he’s going to get there. _You_ , by contrast, have had every single possible advantage handed to you on a platter and you just sit there, _stagnating_ \- you have to know what you want in life, son. You have to be able to visualise your future and then _chase it_. You have to go after what you want.

Akashi already knows that he is going to become his father. He sees no point, short of an unforeseen and tragic accident, in hastening that day.

.0.

They do Skype, for Akashi to congratulate Shintarou on the article, and because while they play near-daily electronic shogi games, there’s nothing quite like looking at Shintarou’s face when he’s thinking up a move, the momentary but invigorating expression of irritation that crosses Shintarou’s face when he concedes defeat.

Akashi doesn’t inform Shintarou of the full extent of his father’s inquiries. Shintarou, with his adoring and over-indulgent parents- who have, among other things, allowed their son to take over half the house as lucky item storage- has never been able to process that Akashi’s father is anything other than a wonderful man who takes the time out of his tremendously busy schedule to anxiously monitor his only son’s activities and take an extremely kind interest in Akashi’s friends. Akashi doesn’t have the heart to disillusion Shintarou. That will come soon enough.

“Tell him I thank him for his interest,” says Shintarou. “Is there anything else? I won’t be able to make this time next week, we have practice matches scheduled.”

 _Yes_ , Akashi wants to say. _Tell that ‘replacement’ of yours that if he touches you again I’ll chop his arms off_. But that’s unkind, and unworthy of him besides. It will sound like he doesn’t trust Shintarou, when all the physical closeness of the Teikou basketball team was never as intimate as sitting across from him with a table and a shogi board and miles of space separating them. Akashi is sure that Takao Kazunari, point guard and first-year, is a perfectly satisfactory and pleasant young man, with possibly the patience of a saint.

“No,” says Akashi. “I’ll see you in two weeks.” _And at the Interhigh_ , Shintarou’s gaze promises him.

“Your own article was very flattering,” says Shintarou, who had received the news that Akashi was to become Rakuzan’s captain with a very frank look of extreme disgust. “The team shot was quite- illuminating.”

“We pinned the jacket to my jersey,” Akashi relates, amused. “Inoue-san insisted on that exact shot, even though it kept falling off my shoulders. I rather like how the classroom shot turned out- though Ogiwara-kun and I are not really in the same class.”

“Yes,” says Shintarou, beginning to blush, even in the poor webcam resolution. “Your- the uniform suits you very well. Good night.”

Akashi blinks at the empty screen, bemused. He would return the compliment, but Shintarou will likely not pick up the call again, and besides, Akashi’s best memories of Shintarou are not, and are possibly never going to be, of Shuutoku’s gakuran, but rather of Shintarou’s fingers tangled in his tie as he yanks it loose from the knot around his neck, of how Teikou’s blue and white looked against the sheets of Akashi’s bed, of making Shintarou divest himself of clothing for every piece lost and no, Shintarou, keep your tapings on.

He certainly cannot return the compliment about Shuutoku’s jerseys. The whole team resembles nothing more than grocery-store produce. Very intimidating.

.0.

He doesn't, of course, _set out_ to remove himself quietly from his father's overall purview. He looks for schools within a narrow window of his and his father's requirements- extraordinary reputation, academics, activites, income bracket. When he has come to a deliberation, he sets it before his father, who will have to sign off on Akashi's decision anyway. 

His father drums his fingers on the table, examining Akashi's proposal laid out in front of him like a twelve-step plan for war. "It's in Kyoto," his father says.

"As a freshman I plan to reside in the school dormitories," Akashi says. "At that point I will further evaluate my options." The household staff are united as a body in their opinion that the young master is not capable of living by himself. The outside staff are terrified that the young master will wander off somewhere and get lost. The members of his father's extended retinue- at least, those who have been around long enough- express their worry that the young master will be lonely, or the master lonely, without his son. 

Akashi treats all these concerns, though well-meaning, with the polite contempt they deserve. 

"Why this school?" his father asks, and Akashi knows instinctively that there is only one answer. Why Rakuzan, out of all the elite schools: because basketball. But that is not going to be enough for Akashi's father, in the way that no abstract concept, in essence, will ever be enough for Akashi's father. 

"The coach has offered me the captaincy at Rakuzan," says Akashi. He lets that stand, for a moment. When Akashi was thirteen and entrusted the captaincy at Teikou, he did not tell his father- not because it was Nijimura-san, nor because he was worried he would not succed as captain but because it would have done nothing to change his father's view of basketball, of the club, of Akashi. Now he is fifteen, and it will still not change his father's view of anything. 

Nothing ever does. "You're old enough to make your own decisions," says his father, absolutely flat. 

Akashi nods. He sought neither his father's approval or disapproval, only his consent, and now he has obtained it. 

"Where is Midorima-kun going?" says his father, as he hands the prospectus back to Akashi. 

"He hasn't yet decided," says Akashi, a more diplomatic way of saying that Oha Asa has not yet shown Shintarou the way, and confirming that Shintarou will not be coming with him. 

"I've no doubt he'll make a wise and considered decision," says his father. 

"Certainly," says Akashi. Once he has returned to his study, Akashi drops the plan he prepared for his father into the trash. 

 .0.

After the Winter Cup Akashi drops back into the Tokyo mansion to distribute some souvenirs to and pay his respects to the household staff. It’s a very quick visit; he is engaged for the rest of the day with his friends, all of them, Daiki, likely with Momoi dangling off his shoulder; Atsushi, who will expect a full truckload of snacks for himself; Shintarou, naturally; Tetsuya, who is apparently condescending to speak to them again; and Ryouta, even though only Momoi invited him.

It is therefore natural that at the end of this flying visit, lasting half an hour at most, in the middle of the workday,completely unscheduled, Akashi runs into his father returning home as Akashi is leaving it, in the foyer, unavoidable and- _Akashi is no longer a child_ \- inescapable.

“Seijuurou?” says his father, whose face Akashi has never truly been able to read.

“I was just leaving,” says Akashi. “I have another appointment.”

“Your tournament,” says his father, as though remembering why his only son would be in his childhood home.

“I lost yesterday,” says Akashi, and even if his father won’t understand, Akashi wants him to. “To a team formed only two years ago, and one of my former teammates.”

“And?” says his father.

“And it was magnificent,” says Akashi, and walks out.

.0.

Akashi waits for, at any moment, his father to start berating him for his loss, the withdrawal of his privileges, his father’s imminent mental breakdown, the things that popular culture and the chatter of his lesser classmates have led him to expect as the response to failure.

None of these things happen. His father appears to be as unfamiliar with the circumstance as Akashi himself is, and deals with it, as he does with everything that displeases him, by ignoring it.

Akashi wonders if the psychological pressure is supposed to break him, but it’s almost restful. Akashi will continue to play, or not play, as he wishes.

Instead his father busies himself with once again inquiring after Midorima-kun, whom Akashi sees frequently and sometimes even in the company of Takao-kun, who is indeed a perfectly satisfactory and pleasant young man with the patience of three saints, though this time it’s with a hopeful air, as though to assure himself that in every life some solace might yet fall. Akashi considers telling his father that he played Shintarou and felt his blood boil, that Shintarou has found a partner so devotedly tuned to his playing that it sometimes feels like a religion, that Shintarou roared up behind him to smack the ball from his hands and Akashi felt, still feels, the thrill of that fear.

He doesn’t, of course. Once is quite enough to bare his soul to his father in a lifetime. Akashi busies himself with Shintarou too- exploring his unchanged inclinations to casual perversion, deepening their emotional connection, preparing for their oncoming, imminent future- for a world in which anything and everything could exist after Teikou.

After victory. 

.0.

Shintarou is not in bed. Akashi rolls out of bed- locates trousers- and follows the trail of soft light to the kitchen, where Shintarou is sitting at the granite countertop making extremely awkward conversation with Akashi’s father.

What.

Akashi becomes very, very aware that Shintarou has left marks all over Akashi’s bare chest, and cannot help but be grateful that Shintarou’s natural modesty led him to put on pants _and_ shirt before he left Akashi’s room, or Akashi’s father would likely even now be examining the imprint of his son’s teeth on his best friend’s abdominals.

His father is wearing _sweatpants_. Akashi has never seen his father in anything more casual than khakis, and he lives with the man. Almost thirty percent of the time. Two months of the year. Ten percent. Perhaps five.

“Akashi,” says Shintarou, in his very best _after this crisis is over, I will panic_ voice. “Your father and I were just discussing the Winter Cup.” He pauses. “And my school. And my team. And our outings. And this hot cocoa. It’s very delicious.”

“I’ll have the staff pack you a tin,” says his father, possibly still staring adoringly at the muss of Shintarou’s hair. Akashi cannot remember the last time he has seen his father’s toes.

“That- that would be most kind,” says Shintarou.

“Would you like a cup?” his father says to Akashi, like the afterthought it is.

“No thank you,” says Akashi, and goes to stand next to Shintarou, curling his fingers around one elbow and squeezing to convey reassurance. His father, drinking his cocoa, pretends not to see. 

“Go back to bed,” Akashi order-suggests to Shintarou, giving him an escape. His father, of course, will not have the inevitable and unpleasant conversation in front of an outsider, no matter how intimately involved.

Shintarou hesitates, though, and Akashi remembers that Shintarou is still under the unaccountable impression that Akashi cares what his father thinks, or does.

“We can continue our conversation at breakfast time,” says his father. “Good-night, Midorima-kun.”

Faced with this unified dismissal, Shintarou leaves, and Akashi memorises, again, the set of his back, his shoulders outlined in thin school-issue cotton. He turns to his father, who has collected both the mugs from the table, and has brought them to the sink.

“Shintarou and I are engaged in a romantic relationship,” says Akashi. “It is not up for discussion or negotiation.”

“I know,” says his father, leaving the cups in the sink for the staff to find in the morning, and then apparently thinking the better of it. He drinks the last dregs from his cup. “I have told you you need to be decisive in life, Seijuurou. Long-distance partnerships take a lot of _hard_ work to keep going. Lack of ability to compromise was something your mother would never have tolerated.”

Akashi has found himself divested of speech before in his life, but never so _thoroughly_ , gaping at his father sipping hot cocoa barefoot in the kitchen at night, and he doesn’t quite recognise his voice when he says, “You knew?”

“Of course I knew,” says his father, dry, and Akashi thinks _did you, from that first moment_ , from the first time that Akashi ever brought Shintarou home, for the first of Shintarou’s attempts to dethrone Akashi as valedictorian, a laughably transparent attempt to study, dissect and conquer Akashi’s revision habits. It was the first time that Akashi had discovered that Shintarou could play shogi, and that was how his father had discovered them some hours later, books pushed aside and notebooks forgotten, an entire jug of juice and four plates of biscuits devoured, heads bent over the shogi board as they murmured sophisticated insults at each other and Akashi laughed at Shintarou’s declaration that he would beat Akashi, someday, next time, today. And Akashi had been looking at Shintarou’s hands sketching haphazard patterns in the air with his pencil, its true purpose forgotten, as he concentrated on his next move, and Akashi had thought about how Shintarou’s glasses fell forward on his intent face, and how long and dark and thick were the lashes fringing his eyes. And then Akashi had stiffened, alert to some alien sense, and seen his father watching them do absolutely nothing of accomplishment and improvement.

“Of course I knew,” his father says, warm and nearly effusive, the faint note of absolute certainty, _of course, he’s my son_. “You’re my son.”

Akashi stares at him a moment more, running the water over the cups in the sink, leaves, and goes back to bed.

 

 


End file.
